


blood and bone

by lmeden



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: AU, F/F, F/M, Fantasy & Supernatural, black magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-01
Updated: 2011-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-15 06:57:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/lmeden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Arthur is a Necromancer and everything else is quite a bit different as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blood and bone

**Author's Note:**

> Written for inception_kink [here](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/15916.html?thread=32079404#t32079404).

The city of New Angeles was old and rotting, spread out like a dark petrol stain on sand. Three great towers stood at its the center, so tall that the uppermost tips of their spires pierced the clouds. Like dreary, limp halos, mist spiraled down around the dark towers, cloaking the upper windows with an ever-present slick of rain and casting the occupants in a drear half-light. Dominic Cobb, Lord Mayor of the New Angeles – whom some dissidents and discontents mockingly called ‘King’, and most called ‘Black Cobb’ after his reputation for violence and use of Dark Magic – looked up slowly from his clasped hands. His eyes were hidden by shadow, and the shadows around his tight mouth grew outwards, looking to split his face in two. Next to him sat Ariadne, Priestess of the Cults, who oversaw all major religions, sects, and belief systems within the city. Her reputation was, if anything infamously Darker than Black Cobb’s. One of her hands grasped Cobb’s arm, the black and curved claws that had grown in place of her human fingernails piercing the fabric of his jacket. The inky darkness from the nails crawled up her fingers and the skin of her hand, staining her; it brought to mind, with vivid clarity, rumors of her Dark Magic experiments, the criminals sentenced to imprisonment never seen from again. Her fingers tightened, nearly imperceptibly.

Arthur turned his gaze away from her, and fixed it upon the Lord Mayor’s hands. They shifted, spreading apart and grasping the arms of his chair. Cobb stood; his hands straightened the jacket of his black suit, and the knot of the dark tie that had been perfectly straight to begin with. Arthur fixed his shoulders, watching, and stood as tall as possible when one was wearing only thin cotton pants and a dressing gown. He wanted to ask Cobb why he was here, why he had been dragged out of bed at the darkest hour of the night by Cobb’s police, and bundled away to the Lord Mayor’s towering to be kept waiting in suspended fear until this moment, but he remained silent. As his heart’s frantic beating slowed, and as he lifted his gaze to Cobb’s – observing the man’s pale, drawn face, his desperate eyes – Cobb spoke.

“You will Raise my wife.”

Arthur’s hands clenched in the soft fabric of his robe, involuntarily. The Lord Mayor’s wife had died a week before, killed by a train running on abandoned train tracks she had been standing on, or so rumor whispered. The story made little sense, and Arthur had long since learned to discount the mutterings of the rumor-mill. There had been no official announcement of Mal Cobb’s death and until this moment, Arthur had believed the woman alive.

Now Arthur’s abduction made some sense. He was only called upon when someone had died. Cobb wanted Arthur to work for him, and he wanted Arthur to Raise his wife from the dead. It was Arthur’s specialty, after all. And it was a task made much easier by the presence of a body, but after a week and a train collision, Arthur really didn’t want to know about that. He stepped forward, heard the click of armor and weapons from the guards stationed at the edges of the room, and stopped.

“I will need something of her, and three days.”

Something personal from her would have to do. Arthur could Raise her with that. Cobb bent his head, hands fumbling together. Arthur mistook the movements shattered nerves again, until he saw the dark skein of hair that Cobb unwound from his wrist and held out. They were yards apart. The Priestess, Ariadne, stepped out of the shadows, and took the tangle of hair from Cobb. His hand fell slowly, and he turned aside. Ariadne waked forward, stopping a bare foot from Arthur. Her hair was a dark brown, and fell in smooth waves over her shoulders. Her eyes were, too, a dark brown, and wide in her pale face. She wore a short dress, belted at the waist and stopping above her knees. She looked so young. Arthur struggled not to pull back and step away from her. He clasped his hands behind his back. She smiled softly, kindly.

“Please, you’ve got to help Dom. He’s _so_ distraught. He can’t even sleep. And his well-being means much to me.”

“I will do as you bid, My Lady.”

Arthur clung to the formality, though he felt faintly ridiculous. The Priestess’ smile broadened and curled upwards. She held the loop of hair, Mal’s hair, between them. The darkened skin of her fingers and the black claws that had replaced her nails blended into the hair until Arthur could not tell where it ended and _she_ began. Her smile exuded satisfaction.

“I don’t doubt that, Arthur. Just remember, I will do _anything_ to make Dom happy.”

Arthur unclenched his hands, and Ariadne dropped the hair into them. A ripple of sensation snapped through him, like the thrum of a tightly stretched string, as she did so. He tucked the hair away in the pocket of his robe, backed up, bowed, and walked to the doors of the room. He paused, waiting for the guards to open them, and glanced unwillingly back.

Cobb was standing in one of the few spots of light in the room, dust moving lazily through the air around him, shoulders hunched. Ariadne stood close, her lips moving rapidly as she spoke. Cobb didn’t look at her. Instead, he stared over her shoulder at Arthur, lines graven deep into his worn skin. His eyes were wild and looked, in the light, for a single instant, blue.

\--

Near Arthur’s small apartment, in a less than savory district of the city, was a bar called Som Na Cin. It was a small place, ostensibly named after the original owner’s family, all long since dead. It was solely managed by a man named Yusuf – a friend of Arthur’s, who managed to keep the bar open almost constantly, without any help, unfathomably. Everyone within a ten-block radius seemed to pour into its tiny confines by sundown, including Arthur. He entered about half an hour before the sun vanished behind buildings.

Arthur had returned from the Lord Mayor’s tower with Mal Cobb’s hair in his pocket late in the afternoon. He had disembarked from the intercity train (of which there were eight in the whole city, all running on raised tracks from Cobb’s towers to the outskirts of civilization) at its last stop, and had walked the three blocks to his ramshackle apartment building. Once in his apartment he had splashed some water from the tiny bathroom’s sink onto his face, considered his options while staring at a dead woman’s hair, dressed and left.

When he walked in and over to the bar, flipping up the hem of his jacket so that he didn’t sit on it on the dirty stool, and then sat, Yusuf smiled at him. The man, dark hair curling and smile bright even in the dim bar light, bent down and reached beneath the bar. He stood and slammed a dark glass bottle down in front of Arthur, leaning forward.

“So what’s the job?” His eyebrows with eagerness.

How had he known? Arthur frowned and reached out, using a thin bone ring wrapped around one of his fingers to snap the cap off. He took a deep gulp from the bottle, letting the liquor burn through him.

“What job?” He groused. He didn’t think it would be wise to tell anyone, even Yusuf, his closest friend, about _this_ particular job. He could tell Yusuf as a kind of suicide note, perhaps, a “If something happens to me, the Lord Mayor Dom Cobb has done it” kind of note. But that wouldn’t do him any good. If the Lord Mayor decided to have him killed, no one would be able to avenge him. Cobb was the most powerful man in the city – no one could touch him. And he didn’t think Cobb would be amenable to Arthur spreading the news of this commission among his friends, either. No, he’d keep silent about it, and maybe he’d live to tell them all about it later. He shook his head, and Yusuf frowned.

“I know you’ve got some sort of job, and don’t try and tell me you don’t. I saw you get dragged off early this morning by police, and you’re back already. Either you’re some sort of mad genius, to have escaped them so quick, you’ve bribed the lot of them (which I doubt, you haven’t had a client in months and I give you liquor gratis), or you’ve been _commissioned_. So, which is it?“

Arthur tightened his grip on his bottle, idly wondering if it was possible to squeeze hard enough to shatter the glass. Likely not. He was saved from having to answer Yusuf’s prying by the arrival of another customer, who dragged a stool up next to Arthur with a loud screech and sat heavily down on it. Arthur raised his eyebrows to himself and pulled his drink closer.

Yusuf smiled at the man darkly, and his teeth seemed very sharp for a moment. He was obviously unhappy about the interruption. The man leaned forward and ran a hand through his greasy hair. He smiled winningly at Yusuf.

“Your largest of your best.”

“Sure about that? My best is very, _very_ good.” Yusuf leaned forward, eager, and Arthur bit back a sigh. The man loved to experiment with liquors - some of his concoctions, which he had tested on Arthur _many_ times, were really foul. And some were literally mind-blowing. But this man didn’t know that, and he nodded at Yusuf.

“Hit me.”

“I will.”

And then Yusuf was gone. Off to mix _something_. Arthur didn’t bother to hold in his sigh this time, and he glanced away from the man next to him. He didn’t want to have a pointless, stilted conversation with the man, as he was obviously expecting due to the proximity of his seat. Arthur had to think about this…this _commission_. If it could be called that – it was more of a summons and order, in fact. And Arthur didn’t know whether he would be able to do it. He wasn’t sure that, with only a thin skein of Mal Cobb’s hair, he would be able to Raise her.

Necromancy called for a body. To Raise the dead, one needed a corpse to bring back to life and repair with magic, a place to put the newly summoned soul. Arthur had no body. He did not know where Mal’s body was, and it was likely smashed beyond all recovery, even with his skills, if the rumor of a train accident was true. He had to find a body somehow, one that Cobb would agree to as his wife, though that really seemed unlikely. Maybe…he could create a body? He knew the rudimentary requirements for fashioning an homunculus, though he has not attempted to forge one in years. If he could create a vessel, when he called Mal’s soul back she would have someplace to stay, at least temporarily. He fingered the hair in his pocket, feeling it beginning to knot.

The man next to him leaned over, so close that Arthur could feel the heat of his body against him. He turned a surprised and incredulous glance on him. The man smiled.

“I’ve heard you’re a Necromancer.”

Arthur glanced around, wondering who had told him _that_ \- Necromancy wasn’t exactly a respected profession in New Angeles and Arthur had found that only those recommended to him knew about his profession. Since Arthur hadn’t worked in a good while, he found it hard to believe that someone had recommended him. Still, it was possible. He looked back at the man and sat up straight. Just then, Yusuf sidled up and set a violently black drink down in from of the man. Arthur stared at it – its darkness roiled and it seemed to swallow the light around it. Arthur leaned away in the guise of sitting straighter. Yusuf jumped right into the conversation, such as it was.

“Oh, Arthur’s the best Necromancer in the entire city. Believe me. My cat died once, and I asked Arthur to help a month later – now he’s good as new!”

He nodded at the man and pointed to the tabby curled and purring on a shelf besides the bar, and Arthur frowned. Honestly. Yusuf just had to tell everyone about the damned cat. He never seemed to mention his next-door neighbor, who had been dead for a week before Yusuf had found her and asked Arthur to Raise her. Maybe the smell had been too much for Yusuf to bear recalling. Arthur glanced over to a corner and saw the woman, vibrantly alive and chattering with a group of friends, drinking. He smiled to himself.

“What do you want?” he asked, turning back to the man.

His smile grew wider. “I have a proposition.”

Arthur opened his mouth to respond, then glanced over. Yusuf turned quickly away, pretending innocence, and Arthur stood, taking his bottle with him. He walked over to a table by the wall, kicked two of the four chairs away, and sat. The man followed him, leaving Yusuf’s concoction behind. Arthur wondered if the man had only come to talk to him. Had the man been following him? He sipped his drink, cursing silently the fact that it was running low.

“I work for a man,” the man began, “who needs a job done. A delicate, _deathly_ sort of job. And—“

The man paused and glanced towards the bar. He turned back around and reached out, cupping his hands around the violent black drink that Yusuf had made, and that Arthur had believed left at the bar. He frowned at it. The man _had_ left it there. And Arthur had not seen it appear here. Sorcery. He could feel the tension of the magic use working its way up his fingers, and he lifted them from the tabletop.

“Despite my own, admittedly formidable, talents,” the man continued, reaching out to pick up the end of the straw sticking out of the drink. He began to stir it, and as he moved the straw, light seemed to trail behind it. A golden luminescence poured from the straw like mist, mixing in with the drink. After several turns, the liquor began to lighten, and after only a moment the entire concoction had turned a clear, light gold. The man smiled at it. “Much better.” He lifted it to his lips and sipped. Arthur sat back, struggling to remain impassive against the impressively subtle display.

“And despite my skills, I have no power over the dead.” The man shrugged, as if the lack meant nothing to him, though Arthur observed a tightening of his mouth. This man did not like to be beaten.

“What sort of job, _exactly_?” Arthur asked carefully. This was too many Sorcerers in one day, too much upheaval and magic. He wanted to know that this one wanted.

“I’m not at liberty to say.” And the man smiled at him.

Arthur placed his bottle firmly down on the table, to the side. He didn’t want to hit a potential employer. Though that potential was rapidly decreasing.

“And what is your employer’s name?”

The man didn’t hesitate, not for an instant, just said calmly, “Fischer,” without blinking, and so Arthur knew that he was lying. He didn’t recognize the name, and he was familiar with most of the names of the underworld bosses and leaders, necessary and useful knowledge when one dealt daily with the dead. And this Fischer, he was no one. Or pretending to be no one.  
9  
“No deal,” Arthur said, standing and pushing away from the table. Damn. The first job in months that might actually _pay_ , and he couldn’t trust it. He’d stick with the problem of Mal Cobb, for now, and leave everyone else their own problems.

“Alright,” said the man. He leaned back and held his golden drink close to his chest, sipping idly at it. Arthur paused and narrowed is eyes at him. The man had come here looking for him, and now gave up so easily? It didn’t feel right. But Arthur didn’t care enough, so he turned away. The man reached out and snagged the sleeve of his jacket, stopping him.

“My name is Eames, Arthur. Don’t forget it. I’ll be back.”

He smile was feral as Arthur wrenched away.

\--

His hand carded through her hair, soothing. Ariadne smiled and leaned into the touch. It was not often, and really more like never, that she was touched. People were too afraid of her reputation, her clawed hands, her unnaturally young appearance. Not unjustified fear. Her hands clenched into fists as she recalled the young prisoner she had been to see earlier, the vivid memory of his blood moving down her fingers, his innards glistening in the scant light below her, and his cries dwindling to nothing. He had been so _interesting_. She smiled softly. Perhaps they had good reason to fear her.

She reached up and behind her, ran her hand along Dom’s cheek. It was rough, unshaved recently. She hooked her fingers around the curve of his ear and turned, wiping the smile from her face. He looked down at her, his gaze dull.

“Dom, dear, this’ll work. Soon, you’ll have her back.”

His hands patted her hair down. “Yes, I’ll have Mal back.”

He looked a bit happier at the reminder, and the lines graven into his face grew shallower. He made to turn away from Ariadne, but she held on, slipping her hand down to the back of his neck and pulling him close, so that her head rested on his chest. She listened to his deep breaths and fought the urge to slip her hand through his skin and between his ribs, feel the vivid beat of life within. Instead, she simply listened. He couldn’t go on like this, pining for his dead wife. She wouldn’t let him. Dom must be assuaged. He must learn to accept what was and _let her go_. She spoke without looking up.

“You will see Mal soon. You _will_ see her.”

Ariadne let a soft trail of magic slip from her claws and move through Dom. Ordinarily he would have noticed the invasion, but he was too distraught and distracted to pay her magic, to pay _her_ , any attention. She let the magic move through him and persuade him that she was right – that no matter what happened, no matter how Mal returned to them, Dom would recognize her and be satisfied. And then, Ariadne hoped, he would be able to let her go. After all, she had never promised Dom that he would get to keep Mal. Her smile grew once more, and she hid it behind the lapel of his jacket.

Nevertheless, if this Arthur failed entirely, if he could not manage to Raise Mal at all despite his stellar reputation, there was nothing Ariadne could do. She couldn’t reverse death, only cause it. Perhaps she would pay Arthur a visit, and _ensure_ that he completed the task. Dom’s arms wrapped tight around her, and his heartbeat sped.

Yes, she’d go visit Arthur. Soon.

\--

Back in his apartment, Arthur stripped off his jacket and threw it over the back of a crooked chair. He reached out and stretched his arms, wrists, and fingers, spreading them apart and flexing them. He felt languid and ready, comfortable enough to prepare for a Raising. He wouldn’t worry now, he would simply do his best and trust in that. He knew that he was, after all the best Necromancer in the entire city.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the small, furred bundle lying in there. He stared down at the mouse, curled up in death. Yusuf had found it in the back of the bar and given it to Arthur when he’d asked. It’d been months since he’d had a job - a _real_ job, a Raising, not cleaning up for a few dollars in the back of Yusuf’s bar or taking whatever small, odd jobs he could find – and he felt that he’d better practice a bit. Arthur tossed the mouse into the air and caught it. Then he put his other hand to his mouth.

A bone ring wrapped around his middle finger, the same ring he had used to pop open his bottle of liquor earlier. It was pale, barely yellowed, and strong. He had had it enchanted to stay on his finger and remain unbroken. He’d worn it for years, used it to open countless bottles, and it remained strong. That was the one thing that Sorcerers were good for, really – among other dangers, their blood was deadly, laced with innate poison. On the underside of the ring was a small spur of curled bone, thick at first before it came to a point. Arthur used his teeth to pull the ring up his finger, onto a higher joint. And then, before he could think about the pain – a familiar sensation, marked by the many tiny nick scars across the center of his palm – he brought the finger down, dug the tip of the bone spur into the flesh of his hand, and pulled. With a sharp nip, the skin parted and slowly began to bleed.

Holding his hand carefully, so that the loose ring didn’t slip off and get lost on the floorboards, Arthur held the dead mouse against the bleeding tear. He lowered his fingers once more until the ring dug into the mouse’s fur and ripped a small hole in its skin. He held the mouse and its sluggish, dead blood against his own fresh blood, and waited precisely seven seconds. Unnatural tension rolled through his fingers, pulling at the tendons and joints though he kept himself completely still. After many years practice, he didn’t need to say the spell, or even think it. It simply _was_. He pulled his hand and the mouse apart.

The mouse’s tail uncurled first, moving away from its body and feeling the air around it. And then its claws began to scrabble at Arthur’s hand, its whiskers to tickle his palm. Arthur smiled down at the little creature and watched it move in his grip for a moment, its eyes wide with terror. He bent and let it go to disappear across the floor and into its own little world.

He walked to the bathroom, and washed his hands and the ring clean in the small sink. He pushed the ring back down to the base of his finger and left the cut in his palm to close on its own. He hadn’t really been worried, but it was good to know that he could still Raise the dead with barely a thought. He would need a bit more blood tomorrow, when he tried to raise Mal Cobb. No, when he _did_ raise Mal Cobb. He glanced around the small room, at the dust gathered in the corners. The bone ring and his own blood. That’s all that he would need. He took in a deep breath and let it out, calming himself. He would deal with whatever happened, tomorrow.

Without undressing, he threw himself down on his bed and drifted quickly into a fitful sleep. He never expected to wake with fingers in his hair.

\--

It was gentle, carding through his hair with ease. Whoever was running their hand through Arthur’s hair must have been doing it for some time, to have worked all the knots from it. He sighed slightly and shifted, moving into the soft touch of that hand. And then, as he woke further, froze. The hand stopped moving, and grasped his hair tightly. He held in a hiss and opened his eyes, squinting against the bright sunlight of the morning.

A dark figure leaned over him, silhouetted by the light. Arthur squinted at the figure, obviously a man, at least, and tried to push himself up for a better look. The man’s hand tightened on his hair, holding him down with a searing grip. Arthur shifted, rolling his shoulders to free his arms from the blankets and reaching up, grasping the man’s wrist. He dug the point of his bone ring into the man’s skin, not hard enough to draw blood, just enough to warn. The man only leaned closer to Arthur, and when he spoke, Arthur could feel the smirk in his words.

“I did say that I would be back.”

Damn, Arthur cursed silently. The Sorcerer from the bar. His name had been something incongruous, something slick and foreign. It was on the edge of Arthur’s mind and he struggled to remember it. The man yanked his hair sharply and leaned down until he was only inches from Arthur. His face suddenly came into focus, all sharp lines and a keen gaze. _Eames_ , Arthur remembered.

Arthur moved so that his elbow came between Eames and himself, but it proved an ineffective barrier. Eames leaned down on it, closer and closer until Arthur closed his eyes and waited it tense anticipation, and Eames’ lips brushed softly against his and the man whispered, “Didn’t expect me so soon?”

Arthur pressed his feet against the footboard of his bed, twisting with his newfound leverage against Eames, who moved, straddling Arthur in a single swift movement and released his hair, sitting up. His weight bore down on Arthur’s hips and thighs, and he slowly stopped struggling. He stared up at Eames, who ran his hands up Arthur’s arms, under the loose sleeves of his shirt. He leaned forward once more, tantalizingly slowly, pressing down harder and harder on Arthur. Arthur watched him, the pressure on his arms growing. By the time Eames was down, lowered so far that his grip on Arthur was at the shrieking edge of pain, Arthur was stiff with anticipation, his breath frozen in his chest.

Eames exhaled, hot breath streaming over Arthur’s lips. His focus narrowed to Eames’ face, the intensity with which he watched Arthur in turn. In defiance of the pain, Arthur lifted his forearms and wrapped his hands around Eames’ elbows. He pressed slightly, tipping the man forward into a harsh kiss. After the initial tight press of lips, Eames opened his mouth, his tongue slipping against Arthur’s fast and desperate. Arthur kissed back, eyes closing. He felt the heat between their bodies grow, not fully touching but hovering, so close. His growing erection pressed upwards, through the thin sheets and against Eames in his crouch.

 

Arthur grew breathless. He wanted to shift and sit up, get out from the oppressive weight and heat of the man above him. But it felt so _good_. He twisted, closing his eyes against the darkness that swam in the corner of his vision. Eames pulled back and smiled at him, his eyes shadowed. Arthur took in a deep breath. He wanted to _move_. Eames sat back, pinning Arthur at the hips and lifting off his arms. Arthur reached up and grasped Eames’ arms, his bone ring digging into the man’s flesh, and pulled himself upright. Eames grunted with the effort. Arthur braced himself, inches from Eames.

He expected the man to move forward and kiss him again, perhaps lean forward and push him down, bearing him flat against the sheets once more. It would be logical – Eames seemed to like control. And Arthur half wanted him to take control. But he suddenly remembered Eames’ words from the night before, how he had come to Arthur with an offer, a job. Arthur turned his face away from the man and looked out the window, trying vainly to slow his breathing.

“What do you want?”

It couldn’t be so simple as sex. He didn’t look at Eames, blocked the sight of him out of his mind. But he heard Eames’ smile in his voice, that infernal smugness that ran through every bit of him and comprised the whole of his personality.

“You.”

Lies, all lies. Arthur knew it, but the word, the casual claim, sent a quiver through his stomach anyway. He found himself holding his breath, waiting. Eames shifted and brought his hand up to Arthur’s face and cupped it, pulling his head around until he was looking directly into Eames’ face. He avoided the man’s gaze, focusing on his soft lips, beautiful flesh that seemed, if Arthur looked at nothing else on the man, almost feminine. The confusion sent hot pleasure through Arthur, and he swallowed against it. It didn’t help.

“Always you,” Eames whispered, just a bare brush of breath against Arthur’s lips.

Arthur surged up, will to resist broken, reaching for the back of Eames’ neck as he kissed him, drawing them tight together. They came together open-mouthed, hot breath and needy tongues. Arthur grasped Eames and felt his bone ring dig into the man’s neck and Eames shuddered as it pierced his skin. A trickle of hot blood squeezed between Arthur’s fingers. Sorcerer’s blood. Dangerous stuff, that. All sorts of arcane uses, and it was reputedly poisonous if ingested pure. At the moment, he didn’t care about any of that. Eames bore him down to the bed, already pulling the sheets from around him, exposing Arthur to his touch.

Arthur moved into it, arching up against Eames and shoving all rational thought and protest to the back of his mind, and surrendered.

\--

When next Arthur woke, the sun had disappeared over the building, slid into its afternoon slant, and Eames was gone. He blinked, his mind fuzzy for a moment as he remembered the morning’s events. He shifted; a sharp burning ache ran through him, center around his hips, and he groaned, pushing himself up and swinging his legs off the bed. He stretched. Why had Eames left? Arthur had fallen asleep afterwards, exhausted and unwilling to talk, but that didn’t mean that the man had had to flee. His suspicion reared its many heads once more. What had Eames wanted? He glanced around, but nothing seemed missing from his sparse apartment. And there was nothing new – no notes, nothing out of place. Perhaps the Sorcerer had cast a spell.

Arthur froze, and then stood. If Eames had cast a spell on the room, an object, or even himself, there was no way that he could tell. He didn’t have those kinds of skills. He sighed and rubbed at his eyes. This worrying was useless, turning his stomach into a terrible knotted thing and filling his mind to overflowing. He pushed it all back. Eames didn’t matter right now – whatever he had said, whatever this job was, he hadn’t mentioned it. And Arthur hadn’t said yes to it; he’d only responded to the sex, as he recalled keenly.

He stripped off the loose shirt he’d worn to bed, now heavy with sweat and other fluids, and threw it onto the floor. He walked naked into the bathroom and ran the water until it was clear and cool. He was rinsing his face, letting water drip down the back of his neck and over his shoulders, loosening them, when he heard the door to his apartment creaked and grind as it opened. Eames was back. He reached up and shut off the water, slowly straightening. He glanced quickly around as measured steps moved across the outer room, but didn’t spot a towel. He’d have to go naked, then. He took a deep breath, straightened fully, and walked casually to the bathroom door.

There he stopped. It wasn’t Eames; it was a woman, wearing a long coat that fell to just below her knees, belted several times around her slim waist. Her dark hair curled over and around her shoulders. As if she knew that he was looking, she turned, an intense gaze falling on Arthur. It was the High Priestess, Ariadne.

Arthur went icy cold, and then flushed hotly. He was standing, naked and dripping, _dirty_ , in front of the woman. But she didn’t seemed interested – didn’t even glance down to his penis. Instead, she gave Arthur a direct, cool look, and walked over to his low bed. Her heels clicked loudly on the wood floor. She reached out and snagged one of Arthur’s sheets with one clawed hand and whipped it off the mattress in a single, sudden jerk. Arthur swallowed. He knew what strength it took to do that – he’d tried himself and hadn’t been ale to pull the sheet off in one movement. She tossed it across the room and, helpless, Arthur reached out and caught it as it fluttered down.

He took a moment tucking it around himself, and when he looked up again he felt steadier. Ariadne stood by the table near his bed. She had picked up the coil of Mal Cobb’s hair that Arthur had left there and examined it.

“You will Raise her today.”

Arthur’s lips parted in shock for an instant, and he struggled to control himself. He tossed the trailing ends of his sheet behind him and stepped towards her.

“The agreement was for three days.” _I need three days!_ was what he nearly cried. Raising a soul into a dead body was one thing, healing that body after it had begun to decay another thing altogether. He had managed with Yusuf’s neighbor and cat, but he had had _bodies_ to work with. Mal Cobb was gone, and he daren’t press Ariadne into fetching her blood and bone for the ritual. He had a feeling that she would respond badly, and he didn’t want to anger the Priestess. He needed more time to figure out something else. Even his skills couldn’t bring back what was forever gone.

“Yes, that was the agreement, wasn’t it? But I’m afraid…did you have a copy of that in writing?” She took her gaze away from the skein of hair and looked to Arthur, smiled.

He nearly flinched away before realizing that her teeth weren’t pointed at all, her grin no deadlier than the ordinary viper. Damn her. Her face suddenly hardened.

“We have changed Our mind.”

A _royal_ request, then. He couldn’t refuse. Not if he wanted to see another sunrise – or make it out of New Angeles alive, as he fully intended to get the hell out once this damned business was finished.

“You will Raise her today. Now.”

And looking into her eyes – deceptively warm and brown, did many of the men she killed fall in love with her as they died – Arthur found it impossible to refuse.

\--

She had done her research, and she knew that the Necromancer lied. After deciding to visit him and push him ahead to the Raising, she had climbed down to the basement beneath the city’s center tower. Her dungeon. There, she kept her prisoners, her spies. With a few questions, delicately asked, she had learned the basic facts of Necromancy. A soul could not be pulled back from the shores of death without a body to put it back into. After only two days a Necromancer’s power was useless to restore a soul to its former residence. As soon as decay set in, return was impossible. Or so her informants had stated. Rumor claimed that this particular Necromancer had Raised a woman four weeks dead and rotting.

Ariadne watched the Necromancer, Arthur, as he walked down the tower hall ahead of her. His dark brown jacket pulled tight over his shoulders and his neck was stiff. He kept turning halfway around, just far enough to catch a glimpse of her from the corner of his eye before flinching away. She could almost smell his fear. The tip of Mal’s hair poured from his jacket pocket and bounced with his steps.

As they walked up to the last set of doors, closed tight, Arthur slowed to a stop. Ariadne didn’t pause but walked straight past him. Only a few feet from the doors, she heard a groan, and they began to swing open, gathering speed fast as their weight began to do half the work. A rush of air swirled past her, rustling her hair. Inside the long room, Ariadne paused and turned back to Arthur. He looked nervous, all stiff back and pale face. She smiled at him, and beckoned. He walked past her and towards Dom – whom, she knew, sat at the opposite end of the room. The doors began to close once more and Ariadne glanced back at them.

There was a new guard. Interesting. Normally she was consulted as to changes in tower routine and staffing, especially when the new staff served so close to the Lord Mayor. She eyes the new man, speculating. He was bold, that was for certain. Though his body was occupied with leaning against the tall door and pushing them closed, his gaze was turned to watch her. It was a shadowed, frank look that he gave her, sending warm pleasure through Ariadne. No one looked at her like that these days. They were all too afraid. Worried that she would strike them down with a flick of her fingers or perhaps have them dragged away to her dungeons. Even Dom was inattentive, distracted as he was with his wife’s death. The new guard was pleasing. He finished closing the doors and stood straight, pushing his hair out of his eyes with an insouciant hand, eyeing her.

She hid her smile from him as she turned. She forced her mind back to business, but it seemed as if Arthur wouldn’t be resisting her demands much, any more. He stood in front of Dom, speaking softly and nodding. Her heels clicked as she walked up behind him and Arthur sent her a single, nervous glance. She walked over to a chair near Dom and sat, spreading her short skirt and leaning on the arm of Dom’s chair. Arthur pursed his lips.

“You would like me to do it here? Are you sure you don’t want me to Raise her somewhere else?” The Necromancer glanced around the wide, empty hall.

Before Dom could respond, Ariadne nodded. Dom had no personal memories with his wife here. It would be relatively easy to seduce him away from her in this place, if she was successfully Raised. And if the Necromancer failed, as seemed likely, Dom wouldn’t hesitate to execute him, and put the whole idea from his mind. This was the Receiving Hall, where he conducted business, after all. It would make him more bloody-minded, she hoped.

Arthur went down onto his knees, puling Mal’s hair from his pocket, spreading it out on the stone floor, and bending over it. Ariadne gently laid her hand on Dom’s arm, feeling him tense with anticipation beneath her.

He took in a deep breath, and ran his hands through his hair. He shook them out. He reached forward and spread his fingers, then clasped his hands tightly together. Ariadne watched him wince slightly, and smelled the soft prick of blood in the air. Pierced his own skin. Her acute senses felt the magic in the room rise – soft, ephemeral stuff that drifted away from Ariadne when she reached out and tried to seize it. She had attempted to take a Necromancer’s magic before, with as little success. Something about it was inimical to her nature.

Arthur reached down to the tangled hair on the floor and plucked a single strand from it. He held it up to the light, briefly, and Ariadne watched the bright stain of blood on his palm keenly. He took the hair and wrapped it around one of his fingers – a finger which seemed to bear a simple bone ring – and held his hands over the remaining hair. He closed his eyes.

And the magic surged, flaring so brightly that it poured over into the physical world for an instant, blinding everyone in the room. Ariadne hissed and pulled back, claws digging into the flesh of Dom’s arm, before she shielded her gaze and squinted, forcing herself to watch at Arthur and his movements. His face was slack in an expression of honest shock, as if he too was surprised at the explosion of magic. But his hands remained in place, hovering over the last remains of Mal Cobb.

Underneath his fingers, and around Mal’s hair, the shadows began to gather. They jumped and quivered, and as Ariadne watched they formed a figure, just a sketch at first, and then the lines inked in, and then they were Mal Cobb. She lay still upon the ground, unearthly pale. Arthur fell back from her, taking in a gasping breath and staring at the woman he had Raised, wide-eyed.

Dom’s arm slipped out from beneath her fingers as he rose to see his wife. Ariadne watched the woman take in a sudden breath and Dom fell to his knees besides her, hands shaking. Ariadne felt like she was shaking as well, but when she stood she way perfectly steady. She took a step towards Dom before she noticed something and was forced to stop.

The new guard was standing just a few feet away. What did he want? Why was he here? He should be at the doors. She had no patience for it, damn his reasoning. She reached out, calling up the power she had harvested from blood and lives, feeling it course through her like a razor sharp torrent. She would strike him down. But the guard was not intimidated, and with a single smooth step, walked up to Ariadne and slipped the knife into her stomach, pulling upwards.

The pain shattered her nerves; her hands clenched into a fist and her head fell back. She grasped the guard somehow, distantly heard someone, likely Arthur, choke out a single word, “Eames—,“ as she fell to her knees. She had failed, she was dying. She wanted, she wanted more…

Ariadne knew that Dom wasn’t looking at her – had she cried out, she couldn’t recall – though her vision was swimming and turning dark and she could see and thing. He had his wife back. He didn’t need her. Had he sent the guard? Had _Dom_ killed her?

She wanted to weep and rage and feel the cold ice of her own power, so carefully harvested for naught, run through her. All she felt was numbness, flooding her and drowning her, and sweeping her far far away.

\--

The High Priestess’ body slumped to the ground silently; Arthur couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her dark hair pooled over her face, not fast enough to hide her stare of blank shock. Arthur staggered to his feet, backing away from Mal and Cobb, whispering together on the floor, away from Eames disguised in his tower uniform, head bowed and expression hidden.

He stared at Eames, searching the man’s for some hint of remorse, some hint that Ariadne’s death had been unplanned or impulsive, _anything_ redeeming - and saw nothing. Absolutely nothing. Eames straightened and turned, the knife vanished somewhere into his clothing, blood and all. In the dark uniform, he appeared impeccable. One would never know he’d just murdered the most powerful woman in all of New Angeles. Arthur opened his mouth and his voice seized in his throat as Eames’ eyebrows raised and his eyes sparked in expectation. Arthur could force only a single word out.

“What--?” He wanted to know what Eames had done – what he’d really done, because this had to go beyond murder. He needed to know _why_. Eames stepped towards him and Arthur moved back.

Eames smiled. “I did offer you a job, Arthur. You were the one to turn it down.”

Shock flooded him. That _job_?

“I have no idea about your job,” Arthur said, glancing nervously at the Lord Mayor – who appeared to have forgotten that Arthur existed as he embraced his wife. But the look had been a mistake, for when Arthur turned back to Eames the man had moved, and was right up before him, only a foot away. Arthur jerked, shock running through him.

“Yes,” Eames said in a contemptuous voice, smiling all the while. “The _job_. When you wouldn’t accept it, wouldn’t even hear me out properly, I had to result to more creative measures.”

He reached down and seized Arthur’s hand, lightning fast. Arthur stiffened. Eames leaned forward, eyes on Arthur as he turned Arthur’s hand over, nearly bringing his palm to his lips. He opened his mouth and licked the top of his palm – Arthur froze at the sheer insolence of the move and the desire it provoked in him – and then Eames swiped his tongue up to the base of his finger and around the hook of his bone ring. He let the hand go.

“Sorcerer’s blood, you fool boy,” he said, straightening. “You can’t Raise _anything_ properly when using Sorcerer’s blood.”

For a single, strangled moment, Arthur was confused. It was impossible that Sorcerer’s blood could have got onto his ring. He used only his own blood in the Necromantic ritual, what Eames suggested was horrifying, and impossible, and he wouldn’t believe it.

Then Arthur remembered the night before – though it seemed so long ago. Eames moving up against him, hot and firm, Arthur’s hands grasping at him, desperate for a hold, for power, for a fight. The hook of his bone ring piercing Eames’ skin, and the blood that had seeped out between his fingers. And he believed it, suddenly. Sickened to the marrow of his bones, Arthur raised his head to look at Mal Cobb.

The Lord Mayor and his wife had moved away from the spot where Arthur had Raised her, and walked to the side of the room where there was more privacy. They stood close together. Arthur could hear the bare murmur of their voices, but his heart was pounding too hard to make out the words. Mal Cobb was beautiful – dark curling hair and an intense dark gaze – but in the light that streamed through the nearby window, Arthur could see right through her skin. Her could see her bones, the curve and twist if her spine, and the click of her teeth. And Dominic Cobb noticed nothing. She had not been Raised properly – the unnatural ease of her resurrection, the power with which the magic had flowed – could only have been caused by the Sorcerer’s blood that had clung to his ring and contaminated the ritual.

Arthur lunged forward, opening his mouth to cry out. This was not Mal Cobb, but an abomination, a _Shade_. He had to get her away from Dominic. A hand clamped down on his arm and before Arthur could shout a single word, before he could get so much as a whisper out, a hand had wrapped round his mouth as well, silencing him. Eames pulled him back, close to his chest. Arthur’s mind whirled.

The job – Eames had offered him a job. And by contaminating Arthur’s ritual with his blood, he had accomplished it. Had he been sent to ruin Arthur’s reputation? Ridiculous, as he had no reputation to speak of. Had the target been Mal, then? But she was dead and gone, not Risen even now. No…it must be the Lord Mayor. But Dominic Cobb seemed so happy. Arthur let some of the stiffness run out of him, watching the pair. Dominic smiled softly at his wife, posture relaxed and open. Arthur could see that he was happier than he’d been in ages. Why would Eames have been sent to make the Lord Mayor happy? It didn’t make sense. He couldn’t believe that al this scheming had been towards an act of kindness.

“You are right, Arthur. This is no kindness.”

Eames loosed Arthur enough that he could turn his head to look at the new arrival, doors to the long hall wide open behind the man. He was slim and ascetic, with black hair. His voice was soft, but powerful, and softly accented. Not from the city, then. He smiled at Arthur, but there was something very off about him, something that made Arthur wanted to stay close to Eames.

“You may call me Mr. Saito. I work for Mr. Fischer, whom I believe Mr. Eames here has mentioned.”

Yeah, Arthur remembered. Fischer was their employer. And obviously more powerful than he’d believed. Saito turned his attention to the Cobbs.

“This is not a kindness,” he repeated, and Arthur knew that the words were aimed at him. “Dom Cobb has been our goal all along – his wife was merely a casualty meant to destroy him – but Cobb was unwilling to let mourn her. You see, I have owned the railways within this city - _New Angeles_ \- for years. Never dreamed of how useful they could be. And when Mr. Fischer decided it was time for us to make our move – to take the city from Cobb’s hands – his wife appeared to be his only weakness. And so I arranged an accident. Which killed Mal Cobb, to be sure, but did not devastate her husband as thoroughly as we had hoped.”

He frowned faintly at the couple before continuing. “And so we came to you, my Necromancer. We needed Mal Cobb’s Raising to go badly, to go _wrong_. We paid Mr. Eames here to hire you to botch the job, or he would rig the ritual himself. Due to your stubbornness, he was forced to work around you – we would have paid you so much, Arthur; we would have let you live if only you’d said yes to us.”

He turned, and his dark eyes fixed on Arthur’s pale face. They were so cold. Then he raised his gaze to Eames. “But the day is not a total loss. Thank you for that, Mr. Eames.”

Arthur felt Eames nod above him, and then casually, he let Arthur go. He bent his head for an instant and whispered softly into Arthur’s ear – “It wasn’t _all_ business” – before walking over to stand near Saito. Arthur crossed his arms across his chest, sick. So this was it. Arthur had all the answers – some unfathomable plot to destroy the city, betrayal from all sides. He was about to watch the city that he knew, _his_ city, fall.

He took in a deep breath and watched Mal and Dominic Cobb. They were very near the windows, now, and the volume of their conversation had risen – loud enough that Arthur could hear their every word.

“I told you, I don’t feel well!”

Dominic reached out to grasp his wife’s shoulders, who seemed agitated. “Mal, darling, it will all be fine. You’re really returned – you’ve been fully Raised. We can start over and forget that any of this ever happened.”

She shook him off and turned, placing one hand on the handle of the tall window. “We can’t. Dom, my love, we can’t start over. I am still dead, I can feel it.”

Arthur’s heart tore at the desperation in her tone and the truth in her words. She was dead. Her Raising had been a farce only – she was a twisted thing, half living and half dead, and she would destroy anyone who remained near her. Arthur rubbed his hand against his shirt, picking the last of the poisonous, Sorcerous blood from his bone ring. He wanted it off and gone.

“—stay with you. Dom, I cannot,” she was saying. The window cracked open before her, letting a soft breeze in to rustle the curls of her hair. Arthur watched her shoulder blades hitch and hunch. He glanced to the side.

Saito and Eames stood close to each other, fixed on Mal and Dominic’s actions. They paid Arthur absolutely no attention, and he hated them for it. He had played a key part in this – without him, they would have accomplished nothing. Now they left him to stand here alone, as if he was of no importance at all? He wished desperately that he knew how to fight them – that he had the power to throw them both from the window’s ledge and save the city. But he was only a Necromancer. His powers were useless here. Then, something occurred to him. Arthur slowly began to back away from the group, walk quietly over to the Lord Mayor’s throne – to a body crumpled at its foot.

As if prompted by his thoughts, Mal Cobb looked up. She pushed outwards, and the window, though never used, swung easily open. Arthur sank to his knees and inspected the bone ring – it was perfectly clean, now. He clasped his hands tight and twisted, not even wincing as the hook dug through his skin. He paused to watch Mal, who turned, placing her back to the wide-open window, and spoke to her husband.

“I’m so sorry, but I can’t condemn you to this…this half life with me.” And with that she fell backwards, beautifully ephemeral for an instant before she disappeared from sight.

“No!” Dominic shrieked. He stood unmoving, seemingly shocked beyond reason. His hands clutched at his sides and he took three long steps forward, and dove out the window after Mal.

Arthur sobbed dryly and clenched his own hands. That was it, then. He had no choice. There was no one to help him with this but himself. Blood seeped from between his fingers. He opened his eyes and looked up. Saito turned and watched him, silent. Eames glanced over, seized on Arthur’s gaze, and froze with what seemed to be shock. Arthur smiled. It was good to know that he could provoke a reaction – that his actions meant _something_. Eames said something, began moving toward him, but it was too late.

Arthur was already dragging the barb of his ring down Ariadne’s cheek. He closed his eyes and felt his magic swell around him. And then, he called her back, and she Rose.

 

=End


End file.
